Patch Works Center: Weaving Our Own Story

Lyrics

[Intro]
One-one-four-seven Euclid Avenue.
The porch is quiet. The door is blue.
Not a monument. Just a house.
Just a place to keep a promise.

[Verse 1]
Inside, it doesn't smell like victory.
It smells like paper, and dust, and memory.
No polished glass, no velvet rope.
Just a rusted bottle cap, holding onto hope.
A shard of a doll's face, found in the yard.
A worn-out shoe sole, that walked so hard.
These are the gospels of the small.
The things they left behind the wall.

[Chorus]
This is the Patch Works.
Saving every thread.
The words the looms forgot they said.
Stitching the silence, piece by piece.
Giving the quiet ones a voice, a lease
on living memory.
Weaving our own story.

[Verse 2]
Jake pulls a box down from the shelf.
And a voice comes back to find itself.
Fuzzy and thin, through the whirring machine.
Talking 'bout lint in the air, never clean.
Talking 'bout collards and salt pork, a game in the alley.
A name whispered once in the long mill valley.
He leans in close, to catch the fall
of a single syllable, saving it all.

[Chorus]
And this is the Patch Works.
Saving every thread.
The words the looms forgot they said.
Stitching the silence, piece by piece.
Giving the quiet ones a voice, a lease
on living memory.
Weaving our own story.

[Bridge]
They say a city forgets its own name.
Builds over the bones, hides the shame.
But if you don't save the history...
If you don't hold the broken thing in your hand...
How do you know where you're supposed to stand?
How do you know what you're fighting for?
When you don't know who walked through that door?

[Outro]
One-one-four-seven Euclid.
The reel keeps turning.
A single bobbin, a quilt, a yearning.
The sound of a voice, held safe from the past.
Something to hold onto.
Something that lasts.